I’ve had a word with myself after last night’s desperate rambling. Although all of those feelings still remain, I am worried that if I wallow in them for much longer then I’ll end up buried beneath them with very little room to escape. Besides, if I spend any more of my time crying I fear that my house might flood, and I don’t think that’s very fair on the neighbours (or my dad, who doesn’t possess the ability to swim).
Where to begin? Well, first of all, this last month and a half has been a bugger. A massive turd. A huge pile of steaming shit. More tears have flown out of my face than fireworks flew into the sky on New Year’s Eve, and I am exhausted. Speaking of New Year’s Eve, I missed the whole thing. I was tucked up in my hospital bed from around 9pm that evening and woke up to catch just two fireworks from my window before immediately falling back to sleep. I did however manage a glass of ‘Nosecco’ before my mini hibernation, so that was something. I’ve not written in forever because my brain simply wouldn’t let me. Not an entire blog’s worth anyway. To be honest, the past couple of months have seen me abandon ship on many of life’s simple tasks. I even gave up on personal hygiene for a short while (I know, how heinous), but sometimes walking to the loo is almost as taxing as running a marathon. In fact, I was recently sat on my bed looking through a bag and I suddenly felt breathless – yes you read that correctly, I was out of breath from rummaging whilst seated. What is happening to me?! I must sound like a broken record; ‘I’m tired’, ‘I’m exhausted’, ‘everything hurts’, ‘I can’t do it anymore’. But the thing is that that’s just about the measure of it. I’m just a very tired, very anxious, very flustered woman. The whole thing is a sodding nightmare.
During my internet absence I’m pleased to announce that I completed the remainder of my main rounds of chemo. Round four made me want to die, number five made me want to die, and number six was both medically and physically boring. Medically boring is the term I use to describe a round that was pretty much plain sailing, i.e. there were no medical dramas (although I did shit myself three times one day. Make of that what you will). For the first time my side effects were pretty modest, I didn’t feel sick, didn’t acquire a seven day headache and my taste buds weren’t too affected. However, it was so utterly dull and uninteresting that, had I any hair, I probably would have pulled it out. The nice part about it was that my sister stayed with me from start to finish. It was mind-numbing and it felt like an eternity, but who better to spend those mind-numbing few days with than your best and only sibling. Round four and five were disgusting; with the amount of vomit and tears produced collectively I could have quite comfortably marketed myself as a human fountain. They. Were. Awful. Which is why I’m reluctant to relive them, but trust me when I say it, it was a shit storm.
So here I am, six rounds of chemotherapy under my belt. Six weeks of hell endured. Six weeks I never want to relive. Six weeks of terribleness that I survived. No one gives you a medal for these things, after all it’s a matter of life or death – who in their right mind would refuse those six weeks? But I’ve given myself a mental gold star for effort. At times I’ve wanted to give up and storm out. I’ve wanted to throw a tantrum and hit people with inanimate objects, but I haven’t. It’s hard. The hardest thing I’ve ever done – hopefully the hardest thing I’ll ever do, but I’m getting there. Provided all goes well I now have just one more round of smaller dose chemo left. Methotrexate, otherwise known as ‘the wee fucker’. It’s not really known as that, I’ve just made that up, but it does ensure that you make best friends with the toilet by the time your five day hospital stay is over. Three litres of fluid plus a teeny tiny bladder makes for many a loo trip. To say I’m dreading it is an understatement. I don’t know whether it’s because this is the final hurdle and I’m just so desperate to get it over with, but I am so anxious and scared and confused. My specialist nurse told me that the end would be tricky, and she was so right (as always). I’m petrified of going through it, even though I should be a dab hand at this now, and I’m petrified of coming out the other end. I have so many thoughts whirring around this brain of mine, I don’t even know where to begin. But for today I will at least try to relax. Tomorrow I have bloods to see how my counts are doing. If they’re doing what they should be – which you would hope after the four impromptu blood transfusions I had last week – then we’re looking at a proposed commencement of treatment this coming Wednesday. It’s a case of wanting it to hurry up so that the sooner it gets here the sooner it’s over, and also a case of me wishing I could just relive the next three days over and over again so that I don’t actually ever have to put myself through it. Oh the emotional turmoil!
Sometimes I literally sit for a moment and think ‘My God, I have cancer’
I just had one of those moments.
One last hurdle. One. Last. Hurdle.